


how sweet it is (to be loved by you)

by booksnchocolate



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, I like my ships how Halt likes his coffee: super fuckin sweet, M/M, only the tiniest bit of angst tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnchocolate/pseuds/booksnchocolate
Summary: Crowley never could get used to the taste of honey in his coffee.(5 times Crowley despaired of honey in his coffee and one time he rolled with it.)
Relationships: Crowley Meratyn/Halt O'Carrick
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	how sweet it is (to be loved by you)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for KP in the One Riot discord as part of the RA gift exchange hosted by Val! Sorry this is so late, but I hope it's worth the wait <3 
> 
> Title from [the song by James Taylor.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kSQdRz-HlJw)

Crowley never could get used to the taste of honey in his coffee.

It still surprised him every time. The sweetness so intense it took his breath away, made his teeth ache in time with the stuttered rhythm of his heart. The scorching heat of the first sip, honeyed fire racing down his throat, the blistering pain nearly enough to make his eyes water.

“You’ll burn yourself if you don’t wait for it to cool,” Halt said, blowing lightly at his own mug.

Crowley only smiled mirthlessly and took another sip. _At least it keeps my mouth shut. Better that way, for both of us._ He only spoke again when he trusted his voice. “Right. To business.”

**1:**

The first time had been easy. He’d been young then, naïve, and he’d trusted too readily; he’d learned since.

It had been easy to meet the stranger’s dark eyes in that roughshod inn. It had been easy to trade words, witticisms, quips and good-natured barbs without any heat behind them. They’d traded names in a heartbeat: _Crowley Meratyn, Ranger of Hogarth Fief; Halt, traveling through._ He’d thought nothing of it. _You show me yours and I’ll show you mine_. It had been very easy indeed to watch him fight, to admire the deadly grace in each movement, to count the seconds spent holding the bow at full draw like it was nothing. Later, Crowley realized he should have been bracing for impact.

He hadn’t thought anything of it the first time he’d seen the stranger – Halt, traveling through – spoon honey into his coffee. The campsite was quiet, the bandits trussed up, and Crowley watched innocently as Halt stirred the sweetened coffee with deft movements.

“Doesn’t that spoil the taste?”

A moment of considering silence. Crowley-Hogarth-Fief and Halt-traveling-through sat beside each other opposite the crackling fire. In retrospect, Crowley wondered if that was where it had all started: the warmth of the fire, and warmer, the tin mug in his hands, and warmer still, Halt beside him looking into the flames.

“No,” Halt said, at last, and Crowley had thought that would be the end of it, but – “Here,” Halt proffered his own mug. “Try it.”

Crowley took the mug, careful not to slosh the hot liquid. He took a hesitant sip and immediately the cloying sweetness of honey filled his mouth. “Eurgh! You can keep that.”

Halt shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The conversation turned then to Pritchard and the Corps and Crowley drank his coffee black the way he always did.

But as he’d tucked himself into his bedroll when Halt relieved him from watch, try as he might, he couldn’t get the taste of honey off his lips.

**2:**

The devastation after the battle of Hackham Heath was unlike anything Crowley had ever seen. He moved slowly through the battlefield, progress hampered by the debris that littered the ground. He tried not to look down; some of the debris had been people he’d recognized, once.

He picked his way carefully over the uneven footing. A day ago, this had all been verdant ground, covered in low-growing bushes and wildflowers. Now, it was a wasteland. The long grass had been trampled by the hordes of wargals and horses that had cut across the moor; blood had soaked into the fine, sandy soil, turning it to mud. Crowley focused his gaze on the small structure on the horizon and walked on.

As he approached, he could see it more clearly: a med tent, hastily erected, the thick fabric of one side still flapping in the stiff breeze. Figures moved around it, soldiers limping in in clusters of twos and threes, pages rushing across the campgrounds to carry water and fetch supplies and convey to the terrified villages the sweet message: _Morgarath is banished!_ _We’ve won, we’ve won!_

He’d thought victory would feel different.

Trudging the last few feet to the med tent, Crowley pushed aside the heavy canvas and stepped inside. Cots were laid in tight rows on the ground, each occupant more bloodied than the last. Healers were bandaging wounds as fast as they could, but it didn’t take a wise man to see how hopelessly they were outnumbered. Crowley took in the scene, the flat, desperate looks in the Healers’ eyes and the pained cries of the wounded, and felt nausea rise in his gut. Morgarath was gone, but was it worth this?

A hand on his shoulder made him jump and turn around. He stared into Halt’s familiar dark gaze and his knees nearly buckled with relief. “Halt,” he rasped.

“That’s my name,” Halt said, still staring at him intently. Crowley knew he must look a mess; he could feel the telltale itch of dried blood crusting his face and his right leg wasn’t able to take much of his weight. Halt’s eyes flicked down and then back up to his face. “Are you hurt?”

Crowley shrugged, immediately regretting it as bruised ribs made themselves known. “I’ll live.” _Most of these men won’t_ , he thought but didn’t say.

Halt stared at him for a moment more, dark gaze assessing. His hand was still on Crowley’s shoulder, a comforting pressure amid the ache of death and war. “Come on,” he said eventually. “I have supplies stashed with Abelard. Not much, but enough to tide you over until the Healers are less overwhelmed.”

Crowley tried to speak but his voice refused to cooperate. He nodded mutely and followed Halt out of the tent.

“What were you doing in there?” Halt asked after they had made their way back through the encampment and were sat in front of a small fire.

Crowley watched the flames pop and crackle in the grey air. It was still light, but he was glad for the fire nonetheless; somehow, all the warmth had leached from his bones. He swallowed thickly. “Looking… at the toll.” _Looking for you_. He bit his tongue.

Halt made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat as he rummaged through his saddlebags for supplies. He returned a moment later, setting out cloth bandages and rags, one of which he wet with his canteen. “Here,” he said, and Crowley got the message, leaned forward to let Halt look at the gash on his temple.

Halt took the wet rag and began to work, hands startlingly gentle. Crowley knew Halt was strong, had watched him hold a bow at full draw for minutes on end; yet now, somehow, that strength had translated to grace. He tried not to shift as Halt sponged the blood away from his face. This close, Crowley was intimately aware of Halt’s fingers cradling his jaw, could feel every point of contact between them like a brand. He just hoped Halt couldn’t feel the way his pulse was jumping under his skin, as if his heart was trying to escape. It was just the adrenaline, Crowley told himself. Nothing to do with the feeling of Halt’s breath on his cheeks, on his lips, as the other man leaned in close to bandage the gash at his temple.

At last, Halt sat back, nodding to himself as if satisfied.

“Will I make it?” Crowley asked, a paltry attempt at humour. He didn’t need to see Halt’s eyeroll to know it fell flat.

“Let the Healers look at it when they have time,” Halt said. He pawed through his saddlebags again and came back holding a sachet of coffee and two mugs which he brandished at Crowley. “I can’t do anything for the ribs or the leg, but you can at least keep weight off it for now.”

“You’ve already done plenty,” Crowley said as Halt poured the rest of the water from his canteen into a small pot and brought it to a boil over the fire. “Thank you.”

Halt grunted. Silence fell between them as the water boiled and Halt poured coffee into each of their mugs. He spooned in some honey from his ever-present pot and passed Crowley’s mug over.

Crowley accepted with a wordless nod of thanks. He didn’t enjoy honey in his coffee, could never get used to the strange sweetness – but with everything that had happened today, it was the least of his worries. As they drank, Halt filled him in about the cavalry’s charge, how they’d managed to rout Morgarath’s forces against all odds. Fear ratcheted up Crowley’s spine as Halt described the pitched battle, how bloodthirsty the wargals had been even in flight, how narrow the margin of victory. Ice gripped his chest as he thought of the broken bodies he’d passed on his way to the med tent. Any one of them could have been Halt. If he’d been half a second slower, if the cavalry had been a hair less coordinated, if the rest of the Araluan forces had showed up even a moment later… _I could have lost you_.

Crowley gripped his mug with both hands to hide the tremors. He watched Halt out of the corner of his eye as the dark-haired Ranger slurped the last of his coffee, smacking his lips in satisfaction. He didn’t realize he was staring until Halt stood and broke the silence. “I should report to the King.”

It took Crowley a moment to form words. “He’s with Rodney and the others, or should be.”

Halt grunted in acknowledgement, brushing the dirt from his trousers. “You’ll be alright here?”

“I’ll be fine.” Crowley was proud of himself; it even sounded true. “I’ve got to liaise with the rest of the Corps, start cleanup efforts for… all this.” He gestured to the battlefield around them. “I’ll call a meeting tomorrow.” The battle was over but the work was just starting. He knew there was a long road ahead of them to peace yet.

“Healers first.”

Crowley saluted him with his mug. “Yessir.”

Halt made a noise that might almost have been a laugh as he turned away and Crowley’s chest seized at the sound. How close had he come today to having that sound silenced forever? Halt’s footsteps receded from the fire and Crowley watched until he was out of sight, unwilling to look away. He took another sip of his coffee and let the saccharine taste remind him Halt was still here.

**3:**

The inn was crowded, the air hot and thick with laughter and the smell of stale smoke. The rushes, once clean, now squelched underfoot, soaked with spilled beer and other less savoury substances. Crowley moved carefully around the throng of people clustered at the bar and slid into a corner booth at the far end of the tavern.

“Glad you could join us.”

He grinned at Halt’s words despite himself as he pushed back the hood of his plain brown traveller’s cloak. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Especially not the charming ambiance.”

His words drew a low chuckle from the booth’s third occupant and Crowley nodded to Pauline across the table. She had eschewed her Courier’s gown for a more sensible shift of plain cotton and wore her hair fastened up under a grey cap. In these unassuming clothes, she could be any merchant’s wife (though Crowley knew that under the formless covering, she had her long knife strapped to her side and any man who approached her would have a very unpleasant evening indeed).

“So,” Pauline said as Crowley settled into the bench, “to business then?”

The Rangers straightened up at her words. Halt flicked his gaze to Crowley, an unspoken question, and Crowley gave the slightest of nods, gesturing him to go ahead. “Pauline and I have been doing reconnaissance up near the Grimsdell Woods for the past fortnight.”

Crowley nodded. He’d heard about King Duncan’s plan to ferret out information regarding the recent rash of banditry and looting that had taken place on the outskirts of the Woods where they bordered Norgate Fief. “Did you find anything?”

Halt and Pauline shared a long glance, seeming to have a whole conversation through eye contact alone. Crowley tamped down on the irrational pang of longing that ripped through him. _Not the time_.

At last, Pauline spoke. “We found what we believe to be the beginning of something,” she said delicately.

Crowley opened his mouth to probe but was interrupted at that exact moment by the arrival of a barmaid. “Anything to drink for yous, sirs?”

Crowley flashed her a winning smile. “We’ll have –”

“Three coffees.” Halt cut him off. Crowley raised his eyebrows but Halt only grunted as the maid turned away. “Better coffee than that piss they call beer. Besides, Pauline and I have a long ride tonight if we’re to make Greystoke by tomorrow.”

They fell into a companionable silence as they waited for the barmaid to return with their drinks. Crowley watched her retreating figure as she set the mugs down and bustled away from their table; he waited until she was long out of earshot to speak.

“You found the beginning of something?” he prompted Pauline.

After a quick look at Halt she nodded. “Yes. The first few hamlets we visited had nothing for us; there were mentions of raiders in other villages but nothing had happened on their own turf. However, as we got closer to the woods, the stories started changing. Nearly every village on the border between Norgate and Grimsdell Fiefs reported cases of marauders, bandits, pillaging their houses and livestock. Apparently it’s been going on for weeks now. Needless to say, the villagers are very upset.”

“Especially with harvest season nearly over,” Crowley muttered as the pieces began to connect. “Any hits to their food stores now will compromise them come winter.”

“Exactly,” Pauline agreed. “But that’s not all.”

Halt took over. “We did some digging.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Pauline. _Digging?_

She at least had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. Her lips thinned. _Halt threw some villagers into a pond_.

Crowley raised his eyes heavenward. _Of course he did_. Out loud, he said, “Let me guess, there’s more to this story than clever bandits.”

Halt nodded. “We investigated the villages on both sides of the fief borders,” he said as he pulled a pot from his cloak and spooned honey into two mugs. “Norgate villagers claimed the bandits wore armbands with the sigil of Grimsdell Fief. The villagers from Grimsdell swore up and down that the bandits had had Norgate’s insignia on their clothes.” He passed the coffee out.

Crowley whistled low through his teeth. “Sounds like a turf war is brewing. Who do we know who would benefit from two of Araluen’s strongest fiefs butting heads?” He took a sip of his coffee and realized to his dismay that Halt had put honey in it. He managed to keep his grimace mostly in check. It didn’t matter; neither Halt nor Pauline was looking at him anyway.

“I think the problem is narrowing down that list,” Pauline joked, but there was no humour in her tone. “There are too many people who stand to gain from such a skirmish.”

“You’re right,” Crowley said, scrubbing a hand over his face, suddenly tired. The smoky air was making his eyes sting and water. “I suppose you’ll need more time to ferret out any likely culprits?”

“Unless someone in the next village has a miraculous change of heart, I don’t think we’ll have news for another fortnight,” Halt said grimly. “When these villagers don’t want to talk, it’s like wringing blood from a stone.”

“Understood.” Crowley was already running timelines and scenarios in his head. Information like this would need to reach King Duncan at once. He was a day’s ride from Castle Araluen, less if he could barter for a second horse. “What’s your disguise again?”

“A merchant and his wife, looking to trade their extra rabbit pelts before the snowfall closes the roads,” Pauline said and Crowley’s attention snapped back to her. The ache of longing pierced his chest again and again he fought it down. It was a sensible cover story. No one would believe a woman traveling alone, and left to his own devices, Halt had all the subtlety of an angry bear. A merchant and his wife wouldn’t raise any suspicions; it was the safest way, Crowley knew that. Still, he couldn’t help but notice the way they looked at each other, the weight in their glances, the way that Halt’s chair was angled towards Pauline, the scant inch of space between their hands on the table. The way Halt had remembered Pauline took her coffee black.

“Right,” he made himself say. _Focus on the problem at hand._ “I’ll inform the King as soon as I’m able. I’ll be back at the castle in two days’ time at the latest and I’ll be able to help you with supplies and contacts. Do you need anything? Money for bribes?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Pauline mused as she sipped her coffee. Crowley watched Halt track the movement of her throat as she swallowed and forced himself to look away. “What do you think, Halt?”

Halt drank deeply from his mug. “I think that with the three of us on this case, whoever’s looking to start a fight has no idea what’s coming to them.” He smiled but it never reached his eyes.

“We should get going,” Pauline said after a moment. The inn was starting to clear out, making their corner more conspicuous. “We’ll get word to you in the capital, Crowley.”

She rose gracefully from the bench, gathering her shawl around her. “We’ll get the tab. Come, Halt.”

Halt drained the last of his coffee and set the mug down with a thump. He slid out of the booth to follow her. “Safe travels,” he said, squeezing Crowley’s shoulder as he passed.

 _You too_ , Crowley wanted to say, but he couldn’t form the words. Halt looked at him for a long moment before turning away as Crowley sipped his coffee and kept his mouth shut. And kept his mouth shut. And kept his mouth shut.

**4:**

Crowley’s heart was in his throat as Cropper thundered up to the fork in the road, Gilan and Blaze close on his heels. He could see Halt’s silhouette hunched against the rain and gave thanks to whatever forces were listening that he wasn’t too late.

Up close, Halt looked terrible. There were bags under his eyes like dark bruises; he seemed to have aged a decade overnight. It made what Crowley had to do even more despicable.

“Halt, there is one thing you may have forgotten.” It was a lie, an easy out, and they both knew it. “I’m sorry to have to insist, but…” Crowley couldn’t finish past the bile rising in his throat. Mutely, he gestured at his friend.

“I had rather hoped you might forget,” Halt said and this time his voice was choked with true emotion as he reached into his jerkin and pulled out the silver oakleaf. It was still warm when he pressed it into Crowley’s hand.

Crowley wished he could find some way to fix this, to ease the pain that was etched into every line of Halt’s face. But duty weighed on his shoulders like plate armour. There was nothing to be done. “I’m sorry, Halt.”

Halt shrugged, the insouciance of the motion at odds with the pain behind his words. “It’s a small matter.”

“Gilan, could you give us a moment?” Crowley glanced at him and the young Ranger obediently retreated a few meters to give them privacy. When he was safely out of earshot, Crowley leaned forward and clasped Halt’s forearm, desperation making him reckless. “Why, Halt? Why did you do it?”

The only answer was a low growl. “I had no other choice. You made that quite clear.”

“I –” Crowley cut himself off, changed tack. It would do no good to rehash old arguments and each second brought them closer to parting. “What about Pauline? Surely she can’t be in agreement with this plan.” Crowley hated himself for saying it even as the words left his mouth, hated the pinched, hunted look that crossed Halt’s face at the name.

Halt looked away. “She’ll understand.”

“Well good, because I don’t!” Crowley burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gilan’s head shoot up and he lowered his voice. “This is suicide! You’re one man – what are you hoping to do against the entirety of Skandia?”

“I don’t know,” Halt admitted. The words were gruff, but Crowley could hear what Halt was trying to hide: the fear, the uncertainty. “I don’t know. But he needs me.”

Crowley struggled to inhale past the crushing weight in his chest. “Araluen needs you,” he rasped, willing Halt to hear the words he couldn’t say. _I need you_.

“He _needs_ me, Crowley.” Halt’s gaze was focused on him again, dark eyes raking over his face, searching for – for what? All Crowley could do was stare back, hoping against hope that Halt would reconsider, and hating himself for it.

Halt broke the gaze first, nudging Abelard with his knee to turn east. Crowley was suddenly viscerally reminded of another parting, another fork in the road all those years ago. The same ache reverberated in his bones now. “Just come back,” he said, and if his voice broke on the words, Halt didn’t call him on it. Instead, he leaned over to grasp Crowley’s forearm in a bruising grip.

“You know I will,” he said fiercely. 

This time it was Crowley’s turn to break the stalemate, sitting back in his saddle and nudging Cropper with his toe. “Godspeed, Halt.” It was all he could say.

“Wait,” Halt’s voice stopped him as he turned away. “Here.” He dug into his saddlebags and produced a small pot of honey, handing it over. Crowley glanced at it, nonplussed.

“For your coffee,” Halt said unnecessarily. There was an unfamiliar brightness in his eyes, and his voice had a rough, desperate edge that sent a jolt through Crowley’s chest.

“Thank you,” Crowley said and made himself believe that those words were enough. He shifted in his saddle and clamped his jaw shut, wheeling away before anything dangerous could slip past his lips. He could hear Gilan and Blaze trotting to keep up; he didn’t look back.

That night, Crowley unscrewed the lid of the small pot with reverent fingers and stirred a teaspoon of honey into his coffee. The sweetness shuddered through him and stained his tongue like grief.

**5:**

The boards of the small cabin creaked and moaned as the wind howled around it, unceasing in its onslaught. Snow was piled in drifts against the walls, nearly covering the small lean-to shed at its side. The low veranda was nowhere to be seen; it was blanketed completely in white.

Inside, the small fire in the grate threw shadows across the main room, painting its two occupants in smoky orange light.

“Well,” Crowley said at last, chancing a glance out the small window, “there’ll be no riding in this weather. Looks like you’re stuck with me for now.”

In the chair beside him, Halt snorted. “Joy.”

It made Crowley huff a laugh as he settled more comfortably into his chair. Halt could act as prickly as he liked but Crowley wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity to spend time with his old friend. Lately, there’d been no shortage of urgent duties for the Commandant and free days had been few and far between. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten out of his office, let alone had a full night’s sleep. Perhaps this winter storm was a blessing in disguise – even if the mountains of paperwork would be higher than the snow drifts by the time he got back to the capital. Closing his eyes, Crowley resigned himself to that fate. He was no stranger to hard work. It would be fine.

A long moment passed in comfortable silence, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire. Crowley almost felt he could nod off like this: a warm cabin, good food, good company… He opened his mouth to inform Halt of this but stopped when he caught sight of his friend’s face. Halt was looking at him oddly, brow furrowed and lips slightly parted.

Crowley shifted under the scrutiny. “What is it? Is there something on my face?” He wiped a hand across his mouth, searching for any stains from the stew they’d had for dinner.

“No,” Halt said quickly. He was now staring intently at the fire as if the dancing flames had somehow wronged him. “It’s fine.”

“Alright then –” Crowley was cut off by the harsh scrape of Halt’s chair across the floor as the grizzled Ranger stood abruptly.

“I’ll go make coffee.” He turned and left without a backwards glance.

Crowley raised his eyes to the heavens behind his friend’s retreating back. Please don’t let Halt go stir-crazy during this storm, he thought. With all the excitement of the upcoming Winter Solstice, the last thing he needed – the last thing _Araluen_ needed, he reminded himself firmly – was two of its senior Rangers out of commission because Halt had decided to get too adventurous in a snowstorm.

Long minutes passed as Crowley waited for Halt to return with the coffee; so long that he was half-tempted to ask if Halt was harvesting the beans from Arridia himself. Finally, he reappeared with a full coffee pot and two steaming mugs, one of which he held out to Crowley, who took it with a nod of thanks.

“There’s honey in it,” Halt warned him as he took a sip from his own mug and smacked his lips contentedly. There was no trace of his earlier disquiet.

Crowley snorted and shook his head. “All these years and you still don’t know how I take my coffee. How did you ever become a Ranger with observational skills like that?”

Halt kicked his feet up on the low table before them. “Maybe I know exactly how you take your coffee and I’m just trying to improve on your poor taste.”

“Poor taste, says the man who thinks the height of fashion is cutting his hair with his own saxe knife.”

“It’s how I maintain my rugged appeal,” Halt said, stroking a hand over his uneven beard. The words were deadpan but Crowley had known him long enough to see the spark of mirth in his eyes and the small twitch at his lips that would have been a full-belly laugh in anyone else. It sent a rush of warmth through Crowley’s chest that had nothing to do with the fire or the coffee.

They spent the rest of the evening talking quietly, about old stories and new. Crowley outlined his plans for the Corps in the coming months; how the new batch of apprentices was doing; and the management of fiefs. Halt, in turn, regaled him with the newest highlights from Gilan and Will, and the latest drama in Redmont, involving Baron Arald, the courtier Lord Dawson, and a very unfortunate pair of trousers.

“You should have seen it,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “It took three servants to get those bloody trousers down from the chandelier.”

Crowley couldn’t help it – he burst out laughing. Tears sprang to his eyes with the force of it and he was still chucking as he wiped them away. “Gods, Halt,” he said, when he could breathe again, “if half the other fiefs had stories as interesting as yours, I’d disband the Corps entirely and just set up a weekly gossip circle.”

He expected Halt to laugh at that, but looked up when he was met with only silence. Halt’s gaze was on him and there it was again, that odd look, dark eyes boring into him with an unfamiliar intensity. But he didn’t look angry; rather, Halt was looking at him like Crowley was some abstract problem, a piece in a puzzle he hadn’t yet figured out. As soon as he caught Crowley looking at him, though, the expression vanished and Crowley watched as Halt schooled his face into his usual somber expression.

It was probably just a trick of the light, Crowley thought as he moved to refill his mug. He paused mid-movement, sniffing suspiciously at the dark drink, curiosity momentarily forgotten. “Halt, did you put honey in the whole pot?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“No,” Halt agreed, “I’m not.”

Crowley chuckled ruefully and they settled again into silence, the comfortable quiet shared by people who have known each other for years and have learned to navigate around each other without a need for words. The wind whistled sharply outside as the world was blanketed in white, but as he sipped his overly-sweet coffee and listened to the soft crackle of the fire, Crowley felt a slow and contented warmth spread through him.

Halt cracked one eye open. “I can hear you thinking from here.”

“Stop eavesdropping, then,” Crowley retorted but there was no heat behind it. “I was just thinking,” he gestured around the small room, “this is nice. Spending time with – spending time here.”

“Yes,” Halt said quietly, “it is.”

**+1:**

“Here.” A mug was shoved unceremoniously into his hands, nearly displacing the precariously-balanced stacks of paperwork on his desk. Crowley set his quill down and sat back with a sigh. It had been a long day. Halt’s presence – bearing coffee, no less – was a welcome interruption.

“Thanks.” He took a sip and grimaced. “It’s got honey in it!”

Halt looked at him with an expression that on a lesser man might have been called nonplussed. “Of course it does. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you stealing glances at my coffee mugs all these years.” And that was – that was –

It was completely, laughably wrong, but so much safer than the alternative. “Right,” he said, fumbling for nonchalance, “yes, the coffee. I, uh, guess I was more transparent than I realized.”

It should have been enough. Going along with Halt’s presupposition should have been enough to get him out of hot water, enough to allay any suspicions Halt might have had that there was anything else to be known – but. But he’d stumbled, hadn’t he, tripping over the words. And there it was: the slightest hitch in his breath, the slightest hesitation in his response. It was barely there, barely existent at all, but Halt noticed. He frowned, eyes sharp. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Crowley tried to say, but the word caught like honey in his throat, thick and cloying. And suddenly he was back at the inn again, back in Gorlan, held at swordpoint and meeting the dark eyes of a stranger across the room. Halt’s gaze held the same intensity as all those years – decades – ago, and now, as then, Crowley couldn’t look away.

_So I’m your friend, am I?_

“I don’t think it was nothing,” Halt said quietly. His gaze never left Crowley’s face.

Crowley licked his lips, swallowed around his suddenly dry throat. He could barely hear Halt over the relentless pounding of his own heart, was half surprised the rafters weren’t shaking with it. “What do you think it was, then?”

Halt had leaned forward in his chair when Crowley wasn’t looking. There was an arm’s length of space between them now, maybe less. “I think,” he said, bracing his elbows on his knees, “you’ve been interested in my coffee for a long time.”

“The coffee,” Crowley said, “right.” He could barely stop the tremble in his voice, could feel the flush staining his cheeks even as he strained to maintain his composure. Halt was simply talking about the coffee. Halt _had_ to be talking about the coffee, or else… or else…

“You drink it any time I make it,” Halt said. His eyes were burning into Crowley’s, just as they had for years, just as they had in Gorlan. _There’s a lot to be fond of._ “I put honey in yours all the time and you still drink it, even though you prefer it plain. I –”

“Halt,” said Crowley helplessly, desperately – he could feel himself fraying from trying so hard not to hope – “could you please just say what you mean –”

His words were cut off by Halt’s lips on his. Crowley made a surprised noise against Halt’s mouth; it was chaste, all things considered, a firm, dry press of lips, but unmistakable in intent: a kiss.

Crowley couldn’t stop the shudder that ran through him at the loss of contact as Halt pulled back. He didn’t have far to go: his hands were braced on the arms of Crowley’s chair, bridging the gap between them. For a minute, neither said anything, their breathing coming loudly in the silence. Crowley looked up. Halt was still staring at him, his dark gaze a familiar weight.

Somehow, Crowley found his voice. He circled one hand loosely around Halt’s wrist, easy enough for Halt to pull away if he chose, and made himself look up to meet Halt’s eyes. He wanted to make a joke, a quip, something that would give them both an excuse, but all that came out was honesty. “Please don’t reconsider.”

Halt leaned over him, nearly straddling the chair. There was heat in his gaze and Crowley felt an answering heat low in his belly. “I don’t intend to. I’ve been considering this for a very long time.” He leaned in until his lips were a hairs-breadth from Crowley’s own, and now his voice was laced with subtle humour. “Does this mean you’ve finally come round to having honey in your coffee?”

“There are sweeter things than honey,” Crowley said, and pulled him down for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> ....this is the first thing I've written for RA in a g e s. I've had the idea in my drafts ever since I first read Kings of Clonmel when it came out, and I'm still crying over these two sarcastic idiots all this time later.


End file.
